Spring's Fury (2 page)

November, 1194

God be damned. De Ocslade had to come. Only the contract they'd drawn last spring could save her.

Nicola of Ashby gave an angry huff, her breath clouding in the chill air. She chided herself for doubting. She needed to believe her suckling sister had not failed to deliver the message, else there'd be naught for Nicola but forced marriage to the man who had murdered her father and destroyed her village and home.

‘Twas better she died than to make Gilliam FitzHenry Ashby's lord. Nay, 'twas better he died.

Four long strides took her from one side of the tiny chamber to its door, and she stared at its handle. Pride demanded she try; the latch did not lift. Since Lord Rannulf had held her prisoner for four of the five months she'd been his ward, this was hardly surprising.

With a sharp turn that set her unbound hair bouncing around her hips in lively brown ringlets, Nicola started back across the room. Past the stool and chamber pot, past the coarse straw pallet that was last night's bed, she went. The skirts of her expensive gold and green gowns, created for a wedding that she refused to allow, flew wide with each long step. Her warden should have returned her everyday gowns if he'd wanted these finer garments to remain undamaged. She'd slept in them last night apurpose.

Nicola halted at the tower chamber's far wall. Here, the thick stone was pierced by a slender arrow loop. Neither it nor its mate in the adjoining wall had a shutter. She put her face into the narrow, defensive opening and peered out into a world beyond her reach.

Although dawn had come over an hour ago, the day was yet dull and gray, and the sky unreadable, thick with early November clouds. The loop let her see a segment of the town clinging to Graistan keep's outer wall. Houses were crammed one against the other in a degree of closeness a country girl like herself could never abide. Even still, she envied them. These townsfolk had what she did not; their own homes, beds, and clothing, while she was trapped in someone else's house with nothing of her own save a bit of jewelry.

The heavens chose that moment to release a gentle veil of mist. It turned slate roofs to silver, and woke the tangy scent of gardens slumbering beneath a blanket of mulch. Nicola breathed deeply in homesickness. 'Twas this smell, the scent of growing things, that reminded her most of Ashby's woodlands and rolling hills.

She sighed against her heartache. Home called to her. In all her life, she'd spent no more than two weeks away from Ashby. To have been separated from it now, during the time her folk needed her most, was almost more than she could bear. Who knew better how to rebuild the place, she or that buffoon who had destroyed it?

Guilt, sudden and swift, stabbed through her. If not for her, there'd be no need to rebuild at all. Aye, her stepmother had urged Papa to attack Lord Rannulf, but it had been at Nicola's command that the gates remained shut when Gilliam FitzHenry came knocking.

Nicola slammed her fist against the stone wall and let rage wash away self-blame. Ashby's fall was not her fault. All she had ever wanted was to keep her home as hers, alone.

Rage grew. Aye, if the world were a just place, she would never have attempted subterfuge in order to trick Lord Rannulf into ceding her Ashby. She could have been as good a lord to her home as any man. Damn the laws that saw no value in a woman save for the property she brought with her. Why should Lord Rannulf have control over every aspect of her life, simply because she was female?

Keys clanked at the other side of the thick, oaken door. Nicola leapt into the chamber's deepest corner, every muscle tensed in expectation of battle. The door groaned open.

Two burly men, dressed in steel-sewn hauberks and metal caps upon their heads, stepped inside the door. They were armed far beyond the norm for simple guard duty, their hands upon their sword hilts and their eyes wary. Then again, she had knocked one of them senseless on her last try at escaping. Nicola let a tiny smile touch her mouth.

"Cowards," she jeered at them. "Are you so frightened of one, defenseless maiden?"

"Have a care with your tongue, vixen," one snarled, "or we'll not let the girl in."

Nicola straightened in surprise. Graistan was empty just now, the household having moved to Upwood for the season. Yesterday, her maid had been a grandmother from a local merchant's household, and she'd expected the same woman today. Nicola guessed overlord chose an elderly servant, believing Nicola would not attack the helpless; he was right, she saved her violence for her captors. "What girl?'

They stepped back to reveal Tilda of Ashby on the landing behind them, a tray of foods on one arm and a bucket of water over her other arm. Nicola's heart leapt, but she bit back the urge to scream in joy and relief. If her gaoler’s guessed Tilda was her ally, they would swiftly exile the girl.

The soldiers leered as the petite commoner entered the room, their masculine appreciation of her lush form and fine features written clearly on their faces. Drab gowns did nothing to dim Tilda's honey and cream coloring, and her hood was thrown back to reveal her wealth of tawny hair. Brown eyes were bright with carefully subdued amusement.

"Put your cocks back into your chausses," Nicola called, her voice scornful. "I'm certain she wants none of what you'd offer her."

"Good morrow, Lady Ashby," Tilda said in her horrible French. "My grandmama sends her excuses this day, for she is ill. I hope you can tolerate my presence in her stead."

Nicola coughed to hide her laugh. Although her friend knew the Norman tongue, she and Tilda had always spoken English. Tilda's mother, Agnes, had been Nicola's nurse, and the girls had been inseparable ever since that time. The commoner set her tray down on the stool, then turned on the men. "A little privacy, if you please. I would see to the lady's personal needs."

" 'Tis not allowed," one replied. "Make haste completing what you must do." The two retreated to block the exit and watch that nothing untoward happened.

Tilda turned her back on them with a casual shrug.

"Here, now, Lady Ashby, you've gotten yourself all atangle," she said, her accent making mincemeat of her words. "Lift your arm so I can rearrange your laces."

Nicola did as asked, and the girl loosened the knot. But, instead of drawing the string tighter, Tilda pulled it free of the gown altogether. Nicola drew a breath and glanced over her shoulder at the guards. Where any woman would have recognized this as unnecessary and a blatant attempt to stall, it flew unnoticed over the heads of men.

She looked back at Tilda and saw the pretty girl's lips rise in a triumphant smile. Four months of separation had dimmed Nicola's recall of how much her closest companion enjoyed tweaking those who thought they could control her. And, God forbid that Tilda came to hate someone; her revenge could be vicious.

As the smaller girl smoothed and patted the creases from the now loose garments, Nicola bent her head as if to watch. "Will de Ocslade come?" she whispered.

"Do I look like a nobleman's confidante?" Tilda hissed into the folds of the gown as she rethreaded the lace. "You asked no more of me than to deliver your message." She glanced up with a disbelieving frown. "Why do you care? You surely do not mean to marry him," Her words were barely audible.

"I must," Nicola breathed. "I cannot give Ashby to FitzHenry. Hugh, I can control."

"Nay, not. Too canny." Tilda's whispered warning came around the string in her mouth as she drew its frayed end into a point.

Nicola let a lift of her brows shrug for her. "Then, I'll marry the little man and make myself a widow." A widowed noblewoman sometimes bought control of her estate from the king. Only in that way could a woman manage her own properties with no man at her side.

Tilda blinked, arms outstretched as she evened the string in its eyelets. "Let me straighten your collar, Lady Ashby." She stood on tiptoe to do so, leaning close to whisper, "You are mad. Those women have hair on their chin and grown heirs."

Nicola clenched her fists, not wanting to hear that her plot was flawed; she already knew that. "Little maid," she said aloud, "do you know my tale? Although I tell Lord Rannulf I am betrothed to Hugh de Ocslade, my warden would force me to wed his brother, Gilliam FitzHenry. It matters naught to him that this is the man who murdered my father. Tell me, am I the only one who sees no justice in this?"

"Lady Ashby," one of the guards called, "say no more or I shall remove the maid."

"Consider me muzzled," Nicola said, shooting the man a hard look.

Tilda smoothed the gowns over Nicola's slender waist and hips. "There, that is much better. Now, you sit and eat, while I comb your hair."

She handed the tall girl her tray, and Nicola settled onto the stool facing the wall opposite the door. Tilda stood behind her, her back to the guards. "Why, Lady Ashby, you have no eating knife."

When Nicola looked up, there was no surprise in her friend's face. "Aye, my warden keeps me disarmed, not even allowing me something as puny as a table knife." She tilted her head to one side, her fingers caressing the pin that held her mantle in place.

This piece was the only thing of her father's that she knew to survive her home's destruction. Its garnet-studded head was as thick as two fingers, and it fit into her palm like a dagger's hilt. The narrow tongue that kept the pin fastened in her mantle's shoulder was longer than her hand, and sharpened to a fine point. She was hardly disarmed. "I manage well enough without one."

"I can see that you do," Tilda said, slowly drawing her comb through Nicola's hair. With her second stroke, she leaned forward and whispered, "I have your pack."

Her words brought Nicola around so suddenly, the petite commoner took a startled step back. The guards leapt toward them, hands on hilts. Nicola glanced at them and clapped a hand to her head.

"Have a care," she chided in her most arrogant tone. "How much will my bridegroom like me if I am bald?"

The men relaxed and stepped back into the doorway.

"My pardon, Lady Ashby," Tilda said with a gay laugh, "but you have difficult hair."

Nicola could not restrain her smile. Now that was an understatement. Although she valued the stuff as her most feminine feature, it had a life of its own. Like her, it hated to be bound even in something as sensible as a plait.

Tilda once again placed her body between Nicola and the guards. "I have a new life outside of Ashby," she whispered. "Join me in it."

Nicola drew a quick breath of surprise and looked up at Tilda in consternation. But Ashby was their home. There was nothing for her to read in Tilda’s face; all her questions would have to wait until she was free and free she would be once she had her pack.  Pilfered last July from Graistan's overloaded coffers, it included everything she needed to transform herself. Once she had her new identity, she could even run anywhere without attracting the slightest attention. If de Ocslade would not come to her, then she would go to him.

Tilda stood back to admire the far more sober tresses. A guard called to her, "You are finished now. Go."

"At your command," the commoner replied in English as Nicola came to her feet, then continued in French to the noblewoman. "My lady, I have always enjoyed weddings. Are you not marrying this day at Terce? Might I come to witness?"

As she spoke Tilda smiled, the lilt of her mouth saying she could not wait to taste danger's spice, then angled her head to one side, displaying her even features to their best advantage. This was a blatant taunt. The exchange of marriage vows was always a public event, held where any and all could witness. Tilda meant her words to stick in the guards' minds, stinging them after the fact for not recognizing what went forward beneath their noses.

"Of course you may attend," Nicola replied, "but the abbot has delayed the ceremony until midday. It will please me to look for you in the crowd, for yours is a friendly face and I am among enemies here."

"I will be there. Still smiling, Tilda walked out the door. The men stepped swiftly from the room and shut the door quietly behind them.

Nicola crossed the room to the door, where she stared at the latch. Pride demanded she try. The latch would not lift; it was locked.

Elbows braced on his knees, Gilliam FitzHenry sat on a bench before the farthest of the twin hearths in Graistan's empty hall. He stared into the flames leaping on the raised stone platform. Firelight gleamed off the fine golden embroidery trimming the sleeves of his best blue gown. It also marked the damage done by yesterday's wrestle with the vixen.

Anger was hardly the sign of a happy bridegroom. Nor was so hurried an affair the mark of a love match. That thought made the corners of his mouth lift slightly. No one doubted that this would be a marriage made in hell, but fate and pride left him no other choice.

His thoughts returned to his bride's claim of betrothal. An obvious lie. Now, why did she do so when all she could win was a delay? Gilliam blinked. Of course. She sought an opportunity for escape.

His worry eased. This he could prevent. Aye, no complaint or threat could stop him from becoming Lord Ashby in name as well as deed. At long last, he would gain the one thing a youngest son never dared dream to have: a home of his own.

A winner's howl of success rose from the depths of the hall behind Gilliam's back, echoing into the high roof. The few men he'd brought from Ashby had joined Graistan's off-duty garrison at the other hearth in a friendly game of dice. Winter was the keep's period of rest, time spent replenishing its stores during the season. When the wedding was done, these soldiers would be the keep's only occupants.

"Lord Gilliam, Lord Geoffrey comes." The porter's call came from the door at the room's opposite end, floating over the shouts of the losers on the last roll.

"Better late than never, my mother's oldest son," Gilliam muttered to himself.

Where Rannulf occupied a father's place in Gilliam's life and Temric that of a disapproving uncle, Geoff was a friend and the sibling least likely to treat him as a child. Burying his discontent beneath the expression of the carefree youth that always seemed expected of him, Gilliam came to his feet.

Geoffrey, Lord Coudray, strode past the tall screens guarding the hall from the door's draft. Although he was fully armed in a chain mail tunic over leggings of the same metal mesh, he had removed his helmet and shucked his metal hood and cap before entering the room. Fisted in one of his ungloved hands was the cloak of a small and bony lad.

Travel in November's blustery weather had burned the boy's pale skin raw and streaked his cheeks with dirt. Knotted spikes of fine brown hair thrust up over his generous forehead to stand above his hood, snarled into place by the wind. What with the child's wide-set brown eyes, the whole came together to give him a mummer's astonished look.

"Geoff, I am here," Gilliam called out, the power of his deep voice nigh on lifting the painted linen panels that covered the stone walls. "Is this a wedding gift you bring me?"

"Nay, the bed is my gift, my mother's youngest son. Taking on a squire is work and I'll not have you complaining that I make gift of work," Geoff retorted. His easy stride made the boy trot as they crossed the expanse of rush-covered floor.

"Ah, but the bed's too short," Gilliam teased.

"It wouldn't be if you'd stopped growing before you were too tall for it." Geoff shot back.

Gilliam laughed, truly pleased to have his brother here. "Come close, let me have a look at this squire of mine."

Geoff came to a stop in front of his younger brother and thrust the boy out before him.  Gilliam made a pretense of eying the lad.  It wasn’t the boy he wanted to study.  Although he and Geoff were different in height and build, they were startlingly alike in appearance, or had been until little less than a year ago. They shared their golden hair color and shape of face, even the same inability to grow a proper beard. All that made them different was Geoff’s missing eye and the scars that crossed his face, gifts from Geoff's wife, now blessedly deceased.  The scars had healed flat, and a patch covered his ruined eye.

Geoff didn’t miss the attention. "They mend well enough," he said softly as he recognized Gilliam's interest, the pain in his voice not physical. His remaining eye, a slightly darker blue than Gilliam's own pale eye color, grew darker still against it.

Gilliam instantly shifted subjects. "So, will you stay for the wedding?"

"What?" Geoff asked in confusion. "Here I was coming with apologies on my lips for being late, thinking the deed was done yesterday. Did I get the day wrong?"

"There were complications." Gilliam managed to swallow his anger behind a wry grin. "My beloved claims to be betrothed to Ashby's neighbor."

"That is not possible," Geoff instantly protested.

Gilliam gave a lift of his brows. "Ah, but the new abbot seeks ways to break free of Rannulf's influence, and my bride gave him just the tool he wanted. This Abbot Simon insisted on sending to Ocslade, demanding the man's appearance so he might decide whose claim is valid."

His brother's single-faceted gaze sparked with sudden amusement. "Rannulf must be nigh on mad with rage. I warned him he expected too much of the abbey, and that the monks resented him for it."

"Aye, he's there right now, using all his diplomacy and tact to ease the situation. He'll manage, he always does," Gilliam said with an unconcerned shrug. "Now, why not introduce me to this squire of mine. A boy is far better than a bed." Knowing how intimidating his great height could be, Gilliam sat on the bench, then winked at the boy. The lad only turned his face to the side.

"Jocelyn," Geoffrey said mildly, "come put out your hand and greet my brother, the new Lord Ashby. Lord Ashby, this is Jocelyn, heir to the manor at Freyne, wishing to be fostered in your home."

Bottom lip trembling, Jocelyn reluctantly thrust out his hand, his eyes now focused on the floor. "Well met, my lord. 'Tis kind of you to offer me hearth and home," he mumbled. It was obvious that he'd been coached to make the statement; there was no gratitude in his voice.

Gilliam curled his large hand around the boy's thin fingers and found no strength in the child's grip. "Well met it is.  It’s an honor to have you join my family." When he released the boy's hand, he pointed to the far table where an array of cold dishes had been laid for the morning meal. The simplicity reflected the fact that there was only one harried cook in the kitchen. "Take yourself to yon table and find a bite to eat. It will be a long day of waiting for you, for we'll not be leaving for Ashby until the morrow's morn."

Where the boy Gilliam had been would have raced eagerly toward the prospect of any meal, this one dragged his feet as if going to his execution. He watched Jocelyn as he made his limp-kneed way around the table, then turned on the bench to look up at his brother.

"Geoff, when you asked me to take him as my squire, I admit I thought you addlepated," he said softly to be certain the child did not overhear. "While I had no doubt I could teach him a warrior's skills, my house is only half rebuilt, and I, not yet married. Now I understand. How old is he, ten? Eleven? He cannot even close his hand around mine to greet me. If he were sent to a house with other boys, they would eat him alive, no?"

Geoff sank to sit beside him and stretched his legs out before him. " It’s worse than that. He's nigh on thirteen. He should already be riding at quintains and have his first set of armor. His parents interpreted his small size to mean he could have no life but the Church."

"What has size to do with power?'

"Is that my giant of a brother I hear speaking those words?" Geoff asked with a breath of amusement.

"Size and strength help," Gilliam admitted with a smile, "but it’s the mingling of skill, stamina, and numbers that carry the day. Nor is holiness any impediment. There are more than a few churchmen who can swing a right powerful morning star, Hugh of Durham being a case in point." It had been the holy Bishop of Durham's siege at Tickhill that helped end John Lackland's recent insurrection against his brother and monarch, Richard, called the Lionheart.

Geoff only shook his head and stared into the fire. "Nay, Jocelyn's dam meant for him to be a scholar. In her effort to keep her son from a life she sees as violent, she's turned him into a milksop, afraid of any physical activity. Is it not just like fate to remove both his father and elder brother and make him Freyne's heir? Now, neither his dam nor he has any choice in the matter. Knight he will be, and after that, Freyne's lord." He turned his head to offer his brother a small smile, aimed at life's ironies.

Gilliam looked beyond Geoff to the boy. Jocelyn sat with an adult's stillness at the table, his arms crossed tightly before him as if to keep the world at bay. "What's his temper like?”

 "He is a dour child, joyless and playless. When I urge him to make an effort, he cries and says he cannot because he is too weak and small. It’s but an echo of his mother's excuses for him. Gilliam, if anyone can teach him to find what is fun in this life he must live, you can."

"Is that a compliment or a chide?" Gilliam replied, his laugh meant to hide his hurt over this seeming jibe.

"Now, Gilliam," Geoff said, a spark of laughter in his eye, "I wouldn't have entrusted him to you if I didn't think you man enough to be his fosterfather. Your nature is just that, your nature. I for one am glad of it. Besides, given a choice between you or me making him into a knight, I'd rather it be you." He smiled. "His mother grows hysterical when it comes to Jocelyn, destroying every bit of good I achieve with him.
Jesu
, Gilliam, her tears could fill my moat. I only hope I survive her presence until her babe is born. Dear God, I never expected to play nursemaid to a pregnant widow, but such is my duty." This was a disgusted aside.

Gilliam managed a chagrined look. "My pardon, brother. I happily accept this responsibility.  It’s only that I sometimes think none of my brothers remember I am a man full grown."

Geoff laughed. "Now who is misjudging others? Did you not prove yourself last June when you took down Ashby's walls in only one day to free Rannulf? If ever we questioned, we do so no longer." He paused a moment, then shot his brother a sidelong look. Gilliam tensed at what lay in his gaze. Geoff was going to speak of the past.

"Which brings me to a question that's been plaguing me. Why have you hurried this wedding of yours?"

Gilliam sagged in relief. It wasn't the question he expected. "In short, I need Ashby's lady and what she knows. Where Rannulf sees only a virago, her folk tell another tale of her. Their lady is loyal and true, using her healing arts to care for them and their families. Those who serve the manor say that without her household skills, we'll all starve this winter."

"So, they have convinced you she will be a caring wife?" Geoff's brows lifted as he awaited his answer.

"They have convinced me she is a right fine lady, who holds her folks concerns first in her heart." It was a hedge. He accepted his wife would never love him, but he craved her cooperation like a drowning man craved air. There had to be a way to make her see beyond their past to Ashby's future.

"Rannulf says she threatens you with murder. This is not a woman likely to add your care to her heart's work. Why her, Gilliam?" Geoff asked softly. "Rannulf offered you another suitable property where there was no heiress to marry."

"I did not find the place to my liking," Gilliam retorted, his jaw stiff.

Geoff turned his gaze to the fire. "I see the word `penance' written all over this wedding." It was a gentle sneer.

Gilliam tried to send his brother a quelling look, but Geoff stared at his boots as if they were fascinating. "Do you not wish to disarm and prepare for the ceremony?" he asked stiffly. "Rannulf should be here shortly, and it will be time to fetch my bride."

"Nay," his brother said quietly, "I think I would rather know why you tie yourself to a woman who wishes you dead, when you could have property without marriage."

"I want Ashby." Gilliam scowled at the flames. "These past five months have turned the place into my heart and home, making its folk mine own. I am loath to begin the process anew at some other manor. As for the woman," he managed a mirthless laugh, "you know I have a way with dangerous creatures."

"Aye, with admirable success," Geoff said, his voice still gentle and his attention yet focused at his feet, "but this is a woman, not one of your pets. I find myself thinking of Isotte and your son."

Gilliam's stomach clenched at the mention of Rannulf's second wife and the child Gilliam had set in her. He, of all men on earth, did not deserve a loving wife. "So, among the three of you, you were the one elected to speak to me," he snapped. "Well, I will not discuss it, not even with you."

"If Rannulf has released the past, why do you yet cling to it?"

Gilliam turned his head away from his brother, so Geoff could not see his face. "Jesus God, what I did stained my soul forever," he hissed. "I do not cling to it, it clings to me like the stench of offal. Leave it be."

"I cannot. I must know why you keep punishing yourself when all is forgiven." His brother kept his voice calm, refusing to react to Gilliam's anger.

"Forgiven by Rannulf, mayhap, but I hurt more than him." Suddenly, rage and festering pain drove his carefully buried words from him. "Tell me, Geoff, how I can forgive myself for committing adultery and incest with my brother's wife? Murder, as well, for the child I made in her killed her. Brother, my sins pile, one atop the other.

"Even Ashby's destruction lies upon my doorstep. If not for my youthful sin with Isotte, her sister could never have worked her evil on John of Ashby. If it was my misdeed that caused Ashby's destruction, should it not be me who restores the place? I accept the heiress's hate as my rightful penance." His voice faded to a whisper as his stomach turned. He bowed his head and fought the sickness. "Jesu, I've said too much."

"I never thought you capable of such pain," his brother murmured after a long moment of silence. "Vow to me, Gilliam. Say you'll not make my mistake. Do not place so high a value on your pride that you forget to see the sort of woman you acquire."

Gilliam looked up to find Geoff watching him, worry marking his expression. "I do not. If I seek no love or care out of my marriage, neither is Nicola a madwoman, else her folk would not cherish her so."